BANKANG PAPEL

"For the young boy who loved the richness of his homeland; for the young boy who never forgets. For the young boy who has open-ears heard them all: speak, for a boy could not lie."

            There was a huge wealth in our village. In our wrinkled hands and ankles the labor, the fruits are in the basket ahead of us. Hand in hand, the people work together to reap as many as they could. Black seeds, young root crops, and even the little fruits scattered on the ground. People were carabaos at work in the field under the striking radiance of the sun. People kept on stretching out their bones. Everyone was in spirit. Everyone was after the earning. Yet amidst the drying sun that burned out their skin, they still inched their foot underneath the soil. It was indeed of great perseverance that the wide fields have gone into splendiferous harvest yearly—finest grains and wheat, crops and corns vegetated along the field. Tall Mahogany and Ipil trees used as coal and lumber add up to the wealth of our own. With all of these, one could simply see the prosperity of the village.

            Our beloved land stands across the frontiers of the turquoise ocean and the shoreline. The wide expanse through which the water stretched to the direction of the horizon is priceless. The surface held an alluring beauty as the sun reflects a glimmering light on the water. When you close your eyes, the waves were loud in the howl of the wind. The calmness of the sound and the breeze of the soothing touch of it will give you a sleep in the day. But when you truly open your sleeping ears, the echoing voices of my timed fellowmen can be heard. Many were captivated by the beauty of our land and ocean; many were challenged to step in the richness of our soil. But many have not returned to their home.

            Everyone is hardly working for their families. Farmers work all day long in the field; some men work all day long in the mountain; some women work all day long in the river to wash clothes. But to those aged knowing men who wait for their loved ones to arrive, they work all day long in worries. “Oh! Mercy in our ancestral land the burglar is in thou blood,” the people hymned. They weep out on their knees as if they were begging. They were all whimpering and humming, “Mercy in our ancestral land the burglar is in thou blood.” I stared at them once, and my sight dilated when I saw mother was part of them. I advanced and pulled the edge of her woven cloth. Mother let us go, and we did.

            I looked back to her. Mother said with a deep tone, “Malakki, you have heard the people whimper and plead, ‘Mercy in our ancestral land the burglar is in thou blood.’ Yet you too do not know the meaning of it. I say to you, my dear, many have eyes and ears but could not see and hear.” At that moment, it was darkness that can be seen. I looked at her in wonder. My forehead furrowed as her words echoed in my thought. I nodded and held mother’s hand in our walk towards our home.

            Anyhow, we continued our walk. Mother, when is the big harvest? For a long time farmers work in the field. But she grasped a deep breath, and grabbed me tightly that made my wrist nipped. I almost cried. I did not know what was bothering her. Maybe she was tired working. Or maybe not. I squirmed eagerly. Mother said, “People suffer. People live in hunger. People watch people suffer and live in hunger.” And then she widened her hold.

            She whispered softly while we were walking,

            “The farmers produce living not just for them but for the world.

            They plant rice and wheat with nothing but with their bare hands

            Yet every after reap from what they have sown,

            they left with counted pennies that clang

            in their old patch they use to get their reward.

            Now to those who sit and wait for life to come,

            they use the silver dippers to grasp the final reap.

            But they finish with many left in their plates.

            unknown to the labor of the hauled stiffs.”

            It was then dawn. I gazed through the fiery hues of orange and red orbs beneath the horizon that were slowly sinking to the expanse of darkness. The clouds were all rolling, brushed tightly with the lingering lights of the sun. It was almost dark when we finally got home. Some of my neighbors had their fathers arrived from work in the field. They were all exhausted and dirty, ragged and thirsty. I could also see that the children of my age were so happy to see their fathers who hardly worked from the field. I wonder where father was at this moment. Mother lit the candles but was not satisfied with the small light. She put on the lamp. “It has to be well-lit so we could see the corners and angles of the room. I’m afraid we might stagger in our own house, Malakki. Open your eyes to see,” she grunted. I nodded. Mother has really lots of words to say to me. Some were deep and subtle and I could not comprehend any of it.

Like the days when I was playing bankang papel in the shore of the ocean. As a child, it gave me such joy. I sailed one of my bankang papel to the water. I watched it swam in the waves and assumed that it would have a long journey away from our village. I sailed the other three colored bankang papel mother had made just for me. I jumped out of happiness! I called mother by pulling her rough hands. I was jumping near the spot where I sailed my bankang papel. I pointed those and let mother see the journey it travelled with the direction of the waves in the ocean. Mother stood still beside me; her eyes were sharp as she was staring on the bankang papel in the ocean. She opened her mouth and uttered with conviction:

                “Four bankang papel were sailing on the sea,

             bring forth and forth to the right person to see

            Oh! I put all the tatterdemalion our fellow people of the land

            have covert from the start,

            just sing along with me and you’ll discover what I understand.

            For innocence is still living inside your eyes, I agree not to gouge it

            too soon or too early in this morning.

            Because a burglar, I say to you

             does his ways when it is still dark

             while your eyes were all put into slumber.”

            The room was so bright that I have seen the dust glued at the ceiling. It was the first time I’ve seen such because our house was always dark. Though I saw it, I never bothered myself to remove it.

I focused my attention to the boxed milk on the table. It is delivered every morning to the villagers with free at cost, so the children would have food every morning.  The milk is made from the other village far from us. Our village is such prospered, I say. I was about to drink the milk when I smell something putrid. The milk is not okay to drink. Mother hurriedly threw the milk in the garbage can. And she gave me a glass of fresh grape juice that my people of the village made. This is much okay, Malakki. She said. That milk was my favorite. I beg to disagree with mother.

            The night was deeply slumbered to its own. The creaking sound of the crickets in the forest was as loud as to wreck the silence of the village. Where must father be? And then the door slammed at once. Father finally arrived from the field. His shoulders were all lean in rage; his eyes were deep, but his posture was still like of a young man. Mother immediately advanced to the door so she could welcome him. Father wiped the sweat of his forehead with three of his fingers, and then gave each other an intimate embrace.

             “What took you so long? You must be weary and hungry.” Mother said while she was preparing his dinner. “I worked very hard in the field. I planted seeds for the next harvest. At the shore, I planted freedom for our fellow village where it would not be withered,” father replied. He continued eating for he was so exhausted and hungry. Mother’s face enlightened.

            I decided to sit on the lap of my father’s fatigue pants. He drank a glass of water and thanked mother for the dinner. Father grabbed me with his arms and lifted me up high so I can reach the ceiling. “Can you reach it, sir?” He asked with a deep low voice. I nodded. “When you grow as a mature man, you can touch the ceiling just by your forefinger. And little children like you will stand in awe. But I tell you, for you can touch the ceiling at that time, you must also wipe the dirt in the floor,” father added. Too many words for me this day, I say. I made a big yawn and wiped my teary eyes.

            It was no ordinary day for the villagers—it was the harvest day. Everyone was excited. They were all preparing for this big day. I heard the children shouting, “Many food for us! We’re going to be rich.” I looked out in the window and smiled to the children of my age. Will we be rich? I asked. The children looked up to me and answered, “Yes, because Don Magno will be coming again here in our village. And he will give us money,” and they shout and shout in joy again. I stood my feet to the ground. Father goes in the field so early in the morning during harvest.

            Ten large tractors arrived in the field. I saw the smoke coming from the pipes of the big machine. I jumped to see more of the tractors arriving. I heard mother sobbing while she was also seeing the machines that were arriving. What is wrong? I asked. She hummed, “Oh! Mercy in our ancestral land the burglar is in thou blood. Oh! Mercy in our ancestral land the burglar is in thou blood. It got louder and louder as she reiterated those phrases. “Oh! Mercy in our ancestral land the burglar is in thou blood. Oh! Mercy.” We were just watching the tractors harvest the finest wheat and crops in the field. And then it was finished.

            Don Magno stepped out from his yellow shaded car. His hair was almost bald, and his presence was like of a man who had fought for the village before. “Counting in, counting in.” He promised that he will come back and give the money tomorrow. For now, he shared several of the harvest to us. And then he left.

            But several months came and a couple of pennies were all that we received. Some of the children of my age were crying because of hunger. The field was not green for the seeds that the farmers planted were years to grow. Our village suffered in a famine. Some men who used to have spirit were just sitting in the wooden benches. And those who worked all day long in the field were now whimpering in hunger.

            A shout spluttered the village. Everybody went outside their houses. “My people living in our ancestral land hear me out. In the shore, a man’s lying dead!” Our hands shook in surprise. Mother hurriedly ran to the shore. I followed her. She was crying when I finally reached her. “Oh! Mercy in our ancestral land the burglar is thou blood.” And there father was lying dead in blood. I stood in shock. An old man narrated that father went last night to Don Magno. He was pleading for the penny that he promised he will give in return for the big harvest they had reaped. He persistently begged for those pennies. But Don Magno closed the door for him. Father said in rage, “You who could not keep his promises. You, who hide himself in everyday pretense, let everyone know about this and my land will be freed!” A gun shot was heard and the flocks flew fearfully from the tip of the trees.

            Mother wiped her tears and sailed one of the bankang papel she made for me. “For the young boy who loved the richness of his homeland; for the young boy who has never forgotten; for the young boy who has open-ears heard them all: speak, for a boy could not lie. I sailed it here where freedom was planted and could not be withered. Let this be an advice.” And all her words fueled my firing heart.

Surely mourning eyes hath seen

all the tatterdemalion

Of our fellowmen.

Forgotten—

O’er the frontiers of the Eastern land

Bombs spluttered, rockets hissed in rebellion

Echoes of the cry resonated amongst every nation

Tremendous fire blazed all over their homes.

Yet none hath seen;

turned to ashes

A snap of time in the history flashes

Forth oh! Put the dry palms on one’s bleeding minds.

The knowing people have touched

the agonizing truth and lived

Beneath the depth of the dying land:

‘tis of great courage

Of great strength of timeless clan

that Pearl of the Orient still stood

as the pearl.

“But it is glory ever when thou art wronged

For us thy sons to suffer and die”

now the country’s aching heart: ‘tis a lie?

We are no longer freed;

liberty has been sealed

From the high people who feed on their own country

And fooled, and poisoned and bastardized—

the innocent children of the nation.